


The Slow Spiral

by BarPurple



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bleak, Depressing, Drug Use, Emotional pain, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mentions of Death, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post The Abominable Bride, Spoilers, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 10:45:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5624236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft finally gets some time alone to deal with the pain of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Slow Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> Could you do a fic about Mycroft freaking out about Sherlock OD'ing in TAB?
> 
> My first ever Tumblr Ask. I hope this is what you were looking for :)

The anger was ebbing rapidly even as he asked Dr Watson to look after Sherlock. It was now building into tidal wave of fear and sorrow. It would have drowned a lesser man, but Mycroft was good at, what in the privacy of his own mind, he called the Canute manoeuvre. He’d had far too much practise after all.

He held the tide back until he reached his home. He stood; still clad in his overcoat, by his desk as he telephoned Father to inform him of Sherlock’s latest drug excess. Would there ever come a time when Sherlock would make a phone call like this on his behalf? If anything happened to him would Sherlock even think to call Mummy and Father?

“I know you’re disappointed in him Mycroft, but you know that this time of year is hardest for him.”

Father’s words cut him to the core. It took his monumental control not to give in and cry. Instead his voice was positively arctic as he said,

“Do you really believe I need reminding of that fact?”

“Mycroft. I didn’t…”

“I’ll keep you informed as always. Goodbye Father.”

His composure held as he pulled his overcoat and suit jacket from his shoulders. The garments were slung carelessly of over the desk chair. As he walked calmly into his living room he undid his waistcoat buttons. Scotch was poured from the decanter into a tumbler and Mycroft sat down in his armchair.

It took quarter of an hour of small sips and staring into the cold fireplace before the he sank beneath the tide. Slow, silent tears dripped down his face. His vision blurred as the trickle of emotion became a flood, but Mycroft was focused on his current time and place so the room swimming through the tears didn’t matter.

In his mind’s eye he saw every doss house, every alleyway, every railway arch and gutter he’d found Sherlock in over the years. The hopeless stink that permeated those places ghosted across his senses. The reek of sweat and vomit shifted and morphed into the cloying perfume of lilies in a stuffy church on a too bright summer’s day.

Mycroft roared in pain and violently thrust that memory away. It was only the crystal shattering of the tumbler against the hearth that made him aware he had physically moved. He was standing now, tears still flowing as he grit his teeth and forced thoughts of the funeral from his mind. There was a current of bitter anger boiling through him now.

How dare Father remind him that this was a difficult time of year for Sherlock? Did he think it was easy from him? The festive season held no joy for him anymore; the ringing in of a new year offered no hope; only the certainty of dragging the shaking wreak of his brother from some deplorable den of desperation.

Mycroft staggered backward. He missed the chair and crashed to the floor. He didn’t try to get up. He just slumped against the chair leg and sobbed out his anger, frustration and grief.

Why did Mummy and Father understand Sherlock’s destructive plunges? The one time, not long after the accident, that Mycroft had gotten fall down drunk Mummy had yelled at him for shirking his responsibilities and throwing his life away. If he had to pick a moment when the nickname of The Iceman first applied, that would be the one. The double standard of his parents had hurt him so deeply his only course of action had been to freeze the pain and push it deep down inside.

In moment’s like this, when he let his emotions out, that iceberg melted and pain was as fresh as ever. Mycroft pulled his knees up towards his chest and buried his head in his hands. Had anyone been watching they would have seen not the intimidating politician, but the weeping heartbroken young man he’d been decades ago.

“It's not fair!”

Mycroft’s voice was thick and raw with tears as he gave rare voice to his deep seated resentment.

Sherlock had watched his twi…Redbeard die that day. It had been brutal and bloody; a pointless accident that proved the lack of a loving god in the world. But it had been fast, Mycroft had spent every year since watching his remaining sibling’s slow spiral into oblivion’s permanent embrace.

Constantly being strong and steadfast; forever having to ignore his own pain was taking its toll on him. Mycroft knew he was becoming more bitter and distant. The softer emotions were eroding under the constant pressure of being the steadfast, sensible one. And Sherlock dared to suggest he find somebody to alleviate the loneliness. That bastard was the reason for his solitude and he probably didn’t even understand that fact. 

Mycroft loathed the thought that the day maybe coming when he would find Sherlock high as a kite and simply not care anymore. Would he look down at his brother’s trembling form and sneer? Would he just walk away and leave Sherlock to rot with his demons? Would he choose to abandon his brother? Was that day going to come before he had no choice in the matter; before he couldn’t be there for Sherlock because he was no longer in the world? The race was already on. 

Mycroft drew a shaking breath into his raw throat. His eyes were burning and his face was soaked with tears and snot. He wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve and tutted at himself for the careless, childish action. With creaking knees he rose to his feet and pulled the tattered shreds of his composure back together.

As his mask of chilly indifference slid into place his eye caught the broken shards of the tumbler in the cold hearth. He straightened his spine and walked from the room. A broken glass was trivial enough to be delegated. Mycroft had a broken Sherlock to deal with.


End file.
